I encounter Buknar Vull’s troops early on the fourth day when I intersect the main road, the first notable thing that has occurred since I left town, thankfully. Naturally, they are en route to Nodkis.
The troops are caught off guard as I walk from the tree line and the nearest squad draws weapons. “Identify yourself!”
I hold my hands out in a gesture of goodwill, “I am Zer Khaldun.”
The suspicious eyeing I receive in response tells me that this doesn’t convince them that I am not their enemy. Good, they’re smarter than goblins at least.
One of the soldiers asks incredulously, “Are you Elysian?”
“Not by birth but I live in Nodkis.”
A small sigh of relief washes through the squad. Their swords are re-sheathed at this and a couple of the soldiers walk out closer, “Nodkis is overrun, you know.”
I nod and then realize that I won’t get to move on without further conversation. I steel myself for the ensuing banter. I hadn’t spoken to anyone, save the goblins, for near on two weeks and it had been rather pleasant, actually. I preferred to save my words for those who could appreciate them and pickings were slim out here in rural Elysium.
The man I can now see is the sergeant gives me an appraising look, simultaneously approving of my able-looking body and disapproving of nearly everything else.
My dark olive skin is truly the first thing that identifies me as an outsider. The vibrant-ish, orange robes I wear over loose, linen trousers are tucked in to banded sandals that lace to mid-calf in a style he won’t know is from thousands of miles to the east. It is not as handsome as I would like, as orange dye has been difficult to come by here and the coarser fabrics of the region do not take the color as well as the fine silks of Varasht. Therefore I had been forced to make due with what I could afford to have the local seamstresses to make me.
At 7’4”I tower over these men. That is typically the second thing that makes people think that maybe I am not from around here. I have yet to meet another sentient who can stand eye to eye with me. There are minotaurs and trolls and other monsters who might match me for height, but certainly not for intellect as well. My height makes people nervous and I know it. A fact which I use to my advantage time and time again. It is a natural instinct to fear and respect things larger than oneself. In all my travels, even when I had tried to fit in, I never did. And I was never allowed to forget. Now I make certain others don’t forget it.
Navel, nipple, lip, nose, brow, and ear are pierced with gold rings—several, in some locations. A worn, but intricate, bronze gorget, plated with an electrum facade, encases my neck and shoulders like armor, though I wear no other obvious protection. Decorative armlets encircle my biceps asymmetrically, and simple gold rings are tethered to wrought bracelets by delicate links of worn, gold-brushed chain. My second favorite piece—a simple, golden diadem—coils around my head with two dangling ornaments at my temples. I can see how this coronal gives him pause to wonder if I am of a noble house. In truth, my ornamentation is traditional Varashti, but the attitude is my own.
He doesn’t realize, consciously, that he is unnerved by my lack of eyebrows—let alone any hair—of which I’ve been afflicted by since birth.
With more than a little trepidation in his voice the sergeant ventures, “You look to be a strong fellow. We can always use more able-bodies in the ranks. We can get you conscripted on the road and you can help us take back your home from the orcs. How about it?”
An interesting proposition that I hadn’t considered. However, military life is not for me. I know this with certainty. Yet I really have no desire to go to Buknar Vull other than its safety. My shop and other valuables are back in Nodkis and sheltering among the troops may provide me both safety and proximity to Nodkis. I choose my words carefully, “You’ll find I’m beyond the age of conscription but I am an apothecary and can offer aid.”
The quizzical look he gives me is expected. For all intents and purposes I appear to be in my late twenties but the truth is somewhat of a mystery. There is no elven blood in my lineage, yet I do not age as most men do. Now, less than two years from my sixtieth, I wonder if I will ever age or if only the Apocalypse will be my undoing. Regardless, I did provide the Elysian census my actual birth year when I immigrated, which puts me well beyond its human range for service. I was not keen to be bothered should a war break out, then or now. A cleric had been sent to verify my claim and his divination confirmed it.
Though I loathe to give out any personal information, there are times when lies or misdirection will not serve and that had been one of those times. I had still declined to include my nation of birth, my parents’ names, my beliefs, and a number of other facts I would rather others didn’t know. In a banal place like the Gates of Elysium this is less of an issue, but information has a way of getting up and moving if you don’t keep it locked away. There are myriad facts about me that are really better that others don’t know.
As I look down at the sergeant I wonder if he would guess that I’d killed men before. I had been a killer for hire, in fact. In all my years, I’d been a liar, a slaver, a shaman, a goblin chief, and a demonologist. A lore keeper, a scholar, a consort, an arcane adept, a postulant, and an apothecary. I’d even been in the military before, albeit not in the Gates of Elysium. It is assured that people will judge me for these things if they know them. Yet, whatever they learn about me, whatever they assume, they are wrong. No one knows me save one. And that is the secret I hold closest to my heart.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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